


Attentions, Experiments, Oddnesses

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Could have gotten away with Mature but why risk it?, Explicit rating for penises and orgasms, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, John's started behaving all strange, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, and Sherlock tries to figure out what he's up to, as it were., coming off a little queer, it's for science, or whatever you call it when one long-fingered hand jerks off two penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The point was, they had carved out a platonic relationship for themselves with infinite care. Sherlock believed that John was largely straight, and John believed that Sherlock didn’t feel things in that way, and around those beliefs they’d built up a friendship that worked. And now John was drifting over to those carefully established boundaries and prodding them gently, and seemed to be asking, “What if we...?”<br/>And it felt...amazing."</p><p>John is behaving oddly, and Sherlock hopes it means what he thinks it means, but he has several theories and could well be missing some of the facts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attentions, Experiments, Oddnesses

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing serious, just a bit of fluffy smut (or smutty fluff) for your weekend. This was 3/4 done and sitting on my hard drive and I had bigger, more serious work to avoid, so this got completed instead.

“Sherlock, bring your transport over here, will you?”

John was sitting on the sofa. He had been regarding Sherlock curiously for several minutes, and Sherlock had been ignoring him admirably. In fairness, he had some practice at this, as John had been observing him in a variety of circumstances for some days now, and Sherlock had been ignoring him with spectacular success. John had always watched him (admired him) when he was working; he was used to that. Liked it. _Craved_ it.

But there was something different about the quality of John’s scrutiny now, there had been for some weeks, something about the way John’s eyes bored into him (bored – not boring). It sent tiny prickles of heat into his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. It twisted low in his body. He did not know what John was doing or why. Or if he even knew he was doing it. It was a different kind of attention. Of admiration. He found he...didn’t mind it at all.

It had started that day in the cab, after they’d watched those two bodies being pulled from the water at Canary Wharf. It had not been a complicated case – once Sherlock had examined the abandoned motorcycle, he knew exactly where to search for the bodies – but there’d been some grim satisfaction in being right (naturally), and also some surprising additional evidence to be gleaned from the smaller man’s earrings. All in all, quite gratifying.

As usual, Sherlock used the cab ride home to outline further details for John, in anticipation of his fond smile and congratulatory remarks. (Sherlock had given up resisting how much he enjoyed these moments, and instead sought them out whenever possible and allowed himself to preen.)

This time, though, John had held back his usual ejaculations of “Amazing!” and “Extraordinary!” He avoided his usual way of peering at Sherlock interspersed with shaking his head in wonder and looking out the window. He asked no questions. Instead, he reclined in his corner of the cab and let his head rest on the back of the seat, and kept his gaze steadily upon Sherlock’s face. No, upon his _mouth._ John was letting his head rest on the back of the seat, and he was staring steadily at Sherlock’s mouth. While he spoke. Without looking away.

When Sherlock became aware of John’s unwavering scrutiny, his monologue stuttered to a halt. Sherlock’s poise was usually unassailable but this time he found he did not know where to look. He sat in his corner of the cab with his eyes cast down, lashes fluttering, stealing awkward little glances across the seat to see if John had looked away. He hadn’t. He still hadn’t. He was still looking. Sherlock felt unable to ask him why.

He was aware of a strange heat suffusing his face and chest. He wondered if he was blushing, and if so, whether John could tell. He reflected that this was not normal behaviour, either for John or for general social acceptability, and that he should perhaps move to put an end to...whatever this was. He found he did not want to.

It was only when they’d arrived at the Baker Street flat that John had broken off his intense study. He leaned forward casually to pay the driver, smiled pleasantly at Sherlock, and opened the door. He’d mounted the steps to the lounge in front of Sherlock, in no particular hurry, hung up his jacket, and continued into the kitchen to set the kettle to boil.

He stuck his head back into the lounge. “We have some biscuits left. Would you like some with your tea?” His voice sounded...exactly the way it normally sounded. Curious.

Sherlock managed to croak out a noise of assent before retreating to his bedroom. It took him a quarter of an hour of re-arranging his sock index before he regained a measure of equanimity.

“All right?” John asked when he returned.

“Fine.” He took the offered tea and helped himself to a biscuit. He did not ask about the cab ride.

***

A few days later there was another bit of... oddness from John.

Sherlock was deeply ensconced in an analysis of various brands of hair gel. His study involved several  different tests. He would sit for a time peering at samples through his microscope before rising to the sound of a timer and making notes on the coagulation rates of a series of dollops on pieces of card. He then compared these with how each sample behaved when applied to clumps of actual human hair, which he had stuck to the wall with bits of cello-tape. At each station he would stand or sit motionless for several minutes compiling his notes and filing away the salient bits in his memory for future reference. His concentration was absolute...at least at first.

John’s habit, if Sherlock was absorbed in an experiment, was to steer clear as much as possible. If there was work at the surgery, he made himself scarce, and missed whatever comments Sherlock sent his way in his absence. Otherwise, he ran errands, pottered around the flat, read the newspaper and generally stayed out of the way. Cups of tea left at Sherlock’s elbow typically went cold without being touched, but they kept appearing anyway. Occasionally Sherlock drank them, which he supposed encouraged John to keep trying. In due course John would go out for takeaway, and Sherlock might tear himself away from his work to swallow a few bites and share any interesting results.

This time, though, John did not follow his usual pattern. Sherlock was standing at the window, comparing two blobs of almost identical gel, when John came and stood next to him. He was close, but not unusually so. Sherlock surfaced for a moment (without actually speaking or looking up) and waited for John to say something, but when he didn’t, Sherlock returned to his task.

The next moment, however, his concentration was almost shot when John moved, deliberately (it seemed) crossing the line between _close_ and _too close_. He was now solidly within the confines of Sherlock’s personal space. And he wasn’t moving away.

Sherlock stilled. John was almost directly behind him and he could feel the warmth radiating from his body. The breath from John’s nostrils was tickling the back of his neck. If he straightened up and leaned backwards the tiniest bit he’d be pressed against the full length of John’s body. Once he realised this, it was almost impossible to stop himself from doing precisely that. The sensation was completely unfathomable.

He stayed absolutely still for the space of several breaths – breaths that seemed to be coming faster than usual – and tried to clear a bit of space in his mind for thought. The heat pouring off John’s body seemed to be infusing Sherlock’s frame as well, swirling through his chest and pooling deep in his belly. Taking refuge in science, he mentally catalogued the increased heart rate and the unusual rushing of blood around his body. When he realised that he was becoming lightheaded, there was a kind of horror that he might not be able to maintain his upright position – risky, with their bodies so close.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, and shifted slightly, as if to take a step. John gave way the tiniest amount and Sherlock managed, by taking great care, to move to his next samples without touching him. He stared fixedly (and unseeing) at the hair samples on the wall for several moments before his vision cleared. By the time he could blink and look around, John had moved on to the basin and was rinsing his mug out with a nonchalance that actually seemed genuine.

***

What was John playing at? Sherlock had made his notes on the congealing hair gel and swallowed a few bites of Indian takeaway, with John behaving utterly normally. Sherlock did not want to ask him what was going on, in case...

In case _what?_ He stalked across the flat and picked up his violin; he needed to think. In case what?

In case Sherlock was mistaken? Or In case it made him stop?

***

Sherlock played out his confusion on his violin while John was out.

There was no mistaking that something different was happening. He did not need to retreat to his mind palace to deduce that. Further, that in those two instances John was seemingly deliberately crossing a line they had avoided so carefully in their friendship up to this point. Sherlock with his “married to my work” and “everything else is _transport”_ had established the boundary at the outset, and John had reinforced it with his string of pretty girlfriends.

The Sibelius poured off the strings of his instrument while he thought. Sherlock, also, had chosen not to be forthcoming with John about his feelings for Irene Adler (or lack thereof). He could not imagine that the suggestion he might be infatuated with The Woman could be at all convincing to anyone who knew him at all, but John seemed able to believe a great deal of nonsense despite the evidence of his own eyes. Mind you, Sherlock was not precisely clear-headed about deducing the seriousness of John’s relationships either.

The point was, they had carved out a platonic relationship for themselves with infinite care. Sherlock believed that John was largely straight, and John believed that Sherlock didn’t feel things in that way, and around those beliefs they’d built up a friendship that _worked._ And now John was drifting over to those carefully established boundaries and prodding them gently, and seemed to be asking, _“What if we...?”_

And it felt...amazing. Sherlock had _wanted_ those eyes on his mouth. Had wanted that mouth on it, too, truth be told, and why not, why should he delude himself? Leaning back ever so slightly in the kitchen and bringing himself into contact with John’s warmth would have been the easiest thing in the world, and the most glorious.

“Sherlock doesn’t feel things in that way...” Did he not? Was he not _hungry_ for precisely that kind of contact from John? Naturally he had set the limits at the start, but he hadn’t known, then, had he, what he had found in John Watson. He still didn’t know, but he knew whatever it was was vast and magnificent, and that he could study it daily for the rest of his life and not get bored.

Still he hesitated, though not in his playing as he moved from the Rondino to the Valse. John had not spoken, had not explained what he was doing. John knew Sherlock, how he liked to deduce, how he would never just _ask_ , and how he disliked explanations unless he’d already arrived at them himself. Is that why John was being silent? (Or was he afraid as well? Hard to imagine given the dangers that he had watched John face down, but perhaps his terror lay in a different kind of peril.)

Sherlock, despite what others saw as recklessness in his character, was nothing if not cautious. It would never do to make a misstep in this of all things. Right now he had two or three theories that could fit with the facts he had, but how could he be sure of having all the facts? A mistake at a crucial point in _this_ investigation would be more costly than he cared to contemplate.

Data. He would be silent as well, and observe. He would not ask unless it was the only option left to him. He would _solve_ this.

***

His chance came later that same week, and John’s next move was by far the most intimate.

It came after breakfast. Sherlock had condescended to eat two complete pieces of toast and marmite, and had taken the remains of his second cup of tea into the lounge with the intention of reading through the product monographs of a selection of anti-fungal ointments. No sooner had he settled himself in his chair, however, than John came over and pulled his own chair disconcertingly close. And he _spoke,_  he spoke this time, and gestured, saying, “Sit up a minute. Come here.” And Sherlock complied without hesitation, sliding up to the edge of his seat and leaning forward until he was face to face with John, his whole being caught up in the nearness of his friend’s face and the urgency of Sherlock’s one question, _What was John Watson going to do?_

What John did was reach out with his left hand and slide his fingers along Sherlock’s jaw and over the side of his neck until they curled behind his head. His fingers twisted lightly into the ends of Sherlock’s hair, and his thumb brushed over his earlobe. Sherlock’s lips parted and a small breath escaped, silent, but with a hitch that suggested it would have been a moan if Sherlock could have made a sound. His eyes had closed at that first touch, but some part of him that could still think reminded him that he would get more data with his eyes open, and so he opened them...

...and was met with the full power of John Watson’s most ardent gaze, dark and intent. Sherlock nearly faltered then, nearly broke away, but he forced himself to remain, and leaned a little into John’s warm hand. He was rewarded with another slow brush of John’s thumb over his ear, along with the briefest sigh.

John brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s face, holding him steady with the hand on his neck, and splaying the fingers of his right hand across Sherlock’s cheek. It was an exploration; fingers travelled in short strokes along his cheekbone and then curled there while John’s thumb brushed up the length of Sherlock’s nose. The caress of a thumb across his eyebrow drew a shudder from Sherlock’s gut, and now his eyes did close, allowing the thumb run ever so lightly over the lid, brushing the lashes aside as it did so.  _Sweet._ John’s two hands were cupping Sherlock’s face now, John’s fingers gripping and circling along his jaw while his thumbs roved restlessly over his features. Sherlock ventured a look – John’s eyes were closed now, too, and his breathing was coming faster, as fast as Sherlock’s.

Eyebrows, forehead, temples, cheekbones. Nose, jaw, chin, ears. John’s hands wandered freely over Sherlock’s face. Not his mouth, though. Occasionally a fingertip or the ball of John’s thumb would feather over the corner of his lips but only fleetingly, briefly. Inadvertent. Each unintended touch to his lips sent a shock through Sherlock’s whole body and he felt his need mount. He wanted – _wanted –_ those fingers on his lips. But John withheld that touch, and it was maddening.

Up to now Sherlock had accepted John’s (attentions, experiments, _oddnesses_ ) without any participation of his own, but his desire to feel those fingers on his lips _in his mouth_ pushed him out of his passivity. He still didn’t know what John was playing at, but all of a sudden he decided that he could play, too.

He began to seek John’s fingers on his mouth, ducking his head and grasping with his lips when he felt John’s fingers passing close by. The first time, John eluded him with a chuckle, but Sherlock tried again right away while John’s defenses were down and this time he captured one finger and managed to touch it with the tip of his tongue.

John’s moan was explosive. Sherlock took advantage of his distraction to draw the tip of the finger into his mouth, where he grasped it gently between his teeth and swirled his tongue over the pad. His own focus had reduced to an area the exact size of the whorl of John’s fingerprint. He was panting into John’s palm as the rest of John’s fingers continued to cradle Sherlock’s jaw. John’s breathing was deep and heavy, and rasped in his throat as Sherlock ran his tongue over his friction ridges. He let Sherlock tongue his finger for another long moment before he sighed and pulled it away, continuing instead his exploration of Sherlock’s face, but now avoiding his mouth more persistently than ever.

When at last John’s fingers stilled, he sat for a long moment just clasping Sherlock’s face in his two hands. Sherlock felt – he cast about for the word – _cherished_. He could not remember feeling this before.

For a moment, he wondered in alarm if John was going to kiss him. Then he wondered at the alarm and thought perhaps he wanted John to kiss him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. _Don’t kiss me, John. Don’t kiss me until I know._

John didn’t kiss him. He pressed his hands to Sherlock’s face one more time before sliding them away. _(Bereft_ , offered Sherlock’s word-obsessed mind. _First cherished, now bereft._ The right words.) John’s eyes (dark, intense) closed as he let go, and when he opened them again they were just John’s everyday eyes. He gave a benign little smile and stood up, replacing his chair in its usual position. He then ambled into the kitchen, took the shopping list off the table, and headed unhurriedly out the door, calling out a friendly goodbye as he went.

Sherlock remained in his chair, mouth open, hair tousled, pupils blown wide open and, it must be catalogued, a mammoth erection.

With John safely out of the flat, he reclined in his seat and stroked his fingers thoughtfully along the length of his stiff penis, deciding whether he wanted to do anything with it. Then the memory of John’s finger beneath his questing tongue flashed into his mind again and the choice was made for him. He stroked again, more firmly this time, and opened his trousers, releasing his cock from the confines of his pants.

He considered for a moment that whatever John was up to, one result was that Sherlock was now masturbating alone in their flat, reliving the sensation of John’s hands on his face, cupping his jaw, flitting over his mouth, with no sexual touching at all. (W _ell, define sexual touching,_ said his intellect. Sherlock said, _Not right now_.)

Holding these memories and these feelings in his mind was bringing Sherlock perilously close to his climax. He had his erection in his fist now, and his strokes had shifted from slow and thoughtful to quick and vigorous. John, stroking his face, _John,_ moaning with obvious need when Sherlock tongued his finger. _What noises would he make if I sucked his cock like that –_ and Sherlock was over the edge, spurting over his fingers, gasping.

 

***

**Observations of Behavioural Anomalies. Subject: John Watson**

  *          Item 1: John’s eyes. Pupils dilated, trained on Sherlock’s mouth in the cab.
  *          Item 2: John’s body. Occupying Sherlock’s space and radiating heat. ~~Breath~~. (Of course he was breathing.)
  *          Item 3: John’s voice. Casual. “Sit up. Come here.” No tremor, no stutter. What can I deduce -  No. Just observe.
  *          Item 3: John’s eyes again. Dark, intense, focused. _~~Passionate.~~_ Only data for now.
  *          Item 4: John’s hands, caressing his face. Slow. Deliberate. Thorough. Experimental? _Gentle._
  *          Item 5: John’s finger. (In Sherlock’s mouth. John had left his finger in Sherlock’s _mouth._ He had sucked it. John had let him. Had done more than let him. Had moaned from the depths of his viscera. Had breathed, raggedly, and had not extricated himself for a long while.)



Hm. It was difficult to stick to observations. Another list was called for.

**Observations of reactions to JW’s anomalies. Subject: Sherlock Holmes**

    *          Item 1: Reluctance to make eye contact in cab
    *          Item 2: Flush response (consistent)
    *          Item 3: Past observations suggest subject would avoid intimate proximity. Behaviour did not present.
    *          Item 4: Speech faculties restricted (blood flow issue?)
    *          Item 5: Impulse to taste
    *          Item 6: Impulse to elicit more ~~moans and heavy breathing~~ ~~stimuli~~ anomalies
    *          Item 7: ~~Desire~~.  ~~Arousal.~~   ~~Erection~~   Desire.



There was no other word. Sherlock considered how hard he’d been by the time John had disengaged, how the fantasies of how John had touched him had fuelled a powerful orgasm. Desire for John. Desire for _more._

And John had touched him and touched him, and breathed upon his face, and let him capture his finger and taste and _suck_... there could really not be any more doubt as to what John was suggesting. And now Sherlock had had time to reach his own conclusions.

***

Fast forward to today, then, with John on the sofa regarding him pensively. “Sherlock, bring your transport over here, will you?”

He obeyed. He rose. He came and stood directly in front of where John was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He did not straddle John’s knees, but he came close. John, not expecting his proximity, looked temporarily nonplussed. His face was on a level with Sherlock’s groin. He was staring at Sherlock’s groin. He licked his lips – a nervous habit, or a gesture that signals his arousal? _Obvious._ Sherlock was done being obtuse about this. He made up his mind. He was not a ditherer. John wanted to be all impenetrable? Well, sod that.

Slowly, deliberately, he brought his right hand to the front of his own trousers, and cupped the bulge that was now only about half a meter from the end of John’s nose. He gave himself a squeeze, then ran his fingers in slow circles over the place where his cock was gently stirring. John’s eyes were locked on his fingers, watching their movement as if mesmerised.

“John.” His voice was low and rumbling.

With a visible effort, John tore his eyes away from Sherlock’s growing erection and looked into his face. He did not tip his head up as he did so, however, so he was looking at his friend through his lashes, with his face _(his mouth)_ still pointed in the direction of Sherlock’s bulge. It was intoxicating. _That’s how he would look at me if my cock was in his mouth._ The thought passed through his mind with clarity and precision.

But to the task at hand. “You’ve been experimenting on me.” An accusation. _A bit rich – you do it to him all the time._ ( _That’s different.)_

John cleared his throat but did not look away. “Yes.” His voice was only a little hoarse.

Sherlock stroked the ridge of his penis again, now fully hard within the confines of his pants. John’s eyes wandered back. “Look at me,” he commanded. With a little sigh, John obeyed.

“Would you care to tell me what the next phase of the experiment was going to be?”

John was still trying to keep his eyes focused on Sherlock’s face while his whole body was clearly straining towards a different area entirely. He found his voice. “If I told you, it might bias the results.” Ah. Sherlock’s own words, used against him. Not beyond being a smartarse, then. Mind you, John could muster _sass_ in an impressive range of situations.

“All right. But what hypothesis are you testing in this series of experiments?”

“That you want me.” He sighed, straightened, and then did something unexpected and alarming and absolutely gripping. _He stood up._ And looked him in the eye. No tremor. Now he was face to face with Sherlock ( _well, face to shoulder_ , Sherlock thought, clearing a space for  snark amid the roar of his own blood, the clamour of his heart). Sherlock’s pride (and something else) would not allow him to give ground, so the two men stood together with only inches separating the lengths of their bodies. John’s toes were in between Sherlock’s feet. “That you want me as much as I want you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes with a gentle sigh that seemed to last a long time, as all the air drifted out of his lungs. He bent his neck so that his forehead rested on his friend’s. “John,” he whispered. “Can there really be any doubt?”

A huff of mirthless laughter. “Can you really ask that, after all the times you’ve told me _no_?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with shock. He pulled away and stared. _When did he ever ask me?_ Ok, once. The first night. But since then...? _Oh._ Not in words, but in a thousand other ways. To be ignored, brushed off, or told that ‘Nothing matters to me but the _work._ ’

 _Stupid. Stupid. Obvious._ “I didn’t realise you were asking.” All those times. All this time.

“That’s what... that’s what I finally wondered. And I wanted to be really clear – if there was a chance, I didn’t want to miss it. Hence the experiment. Which is still in progress, by the way.”

“Ah. But if I’m not mistaken, the next phase might require the consent of the subject.”

“You never procured my consent for any of your experiments.”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, but you’re ethical.”

A smile flickered across John’s mouth. “True.” A pause. “Ok. Here it is.” John leaned in towards Sherlock’s ear, his voice at once clinical and erotic. “I, Doctor John Watson, am seeking your consent for the following activities: I intend to kiss you, Sherlock Holmes, with lips and tongue and possibly teeth. I will touch your face and grip your hair while I do it. Your throat will follow. Pending your response to the stated stimuli, I then intend to lay my hand hard along your cock and feel it through your trousers from root to tip. Balls to glans, and every stiff inch in between. I intend to mentally record any and all noises you make during the process. I intend to take your hand and press it to my trousers so you can feel the effect it has on me. Further steps to be determined as evidence is gathered.” There was a brief, charged silence.

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. He hadn’t known John could talk like that. He hadn’t known John could _think_ like that. He wanted, oh, he wanted John to kiss him, to touch him, just like he said. But. _But what?_  They’d waited long enough. “All right. _Y_ _es_ , John. Yes. To the next phase, to you, to everything. Yes. Consent. Informed and enthusiastic –“

And then John didn’t actually say _shut up_ because he was kissing him instead, lips and tongue, and if John’s finger had tasted good, his tongue was exquisite. Sherlock couldn’t get enough. He parted his lips to invite him further in, and when that wasn’t enough, he seized John’s tongue and part of his lower lip with his mouth and _sucked_ – gently at first, but then John moaned and melted against him and he _couldn’t_ stay gentle, he sucked _hard._ He let John’s tongue fill his mouth, no skill, no finesse, just _John_ , the taste of him, filling his mouth. He wanted to devour him. He’d been _starving_ for John. Why hadn’t he realised?

John was breathing hard and leaning into Sherlock, but now he pulled back (only a little) and raised one hand to Sherlock’s face. He drew his tongue away from the deep, deep pull and instead began a series of little flicks of lip and darts of tongue, travelling all over his mouth. Each touch sent a shock of sensation through Sherlock’s entire body. His breath was coming faster now, accompanied by little noises. Whimpers.  _John Watson, you are good_ _at this._ He nipped at John’s mouth, grasping John’s lower lip in his teeth and pulling ever so lightly. John rewarded him with another moan.

John had not yet done any more than kiss Sherlock (thoroughly, yes, expertly, but still), yet Sherlock was already as hard as he could ever remember being. He wanted _contact._ John had declared his intention. Where was his hand?

Sherlock moved his hips forward, asking, seeking. John, intent on kissing him, stilled for a moment. “Tell me what you want, love.”

 _Love._ The sound of the word in John’s voice tasted delicious. ( _Synaesthesia.)( Who cares?)_ “Your hand. Touch me, John. Please.”

John’s breath escaped in an audible sigh. He brought his left hand into contact with the outside of Sherlock’s thigh and stroked lightly for a moment, setting off little whorls of electricity that were at the same time exhilarating and distinctly _not enough._ Sherlock moved his hips again, more jerkily this time. Wanting.

At last John took the hint and brought his hand up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, circling once or twice, almost lazily ( _“John.”)_ before coming to rest around the straining bulge in Sherlock’s trousers. True to his word, he pressed his hand, hard, against the length of it, running his palm down to massage the sensitive bollocks for a time, and then sliding it back up to the very tip, circling the head under his open hand.

As when he’d had John’s finger in his mouth, Sherlock’s awareness was shrunk to the point of contact between John’s hand and his own cock. He stood with his hips rocked forward, wanting all the contact and all the friction he could get. His breath came faster as John’s hand began to move in earnest, palming fine wool trousers, soft cotton pants and (most importantly) Sherlock’s ardent erection. He lost his balance at one point and almost staggered, but John’s arm snaked around his waist and held him firmly in place, almost without interrupting his rhythm.

Sherlock could feel his desire mounting, and he had hardly laid a hand on John as yet.

“John.”

“All right?”

“Oh, god, yes, but... I want to touch you too.”

John grinned. He took Sherlock’s unresisting hand and turned the palm towards his own trousers, so that he could plainly feel John’s arousal. Sherlock moved his hand against his friend’s trouser front with a kind of wonder. “I’m touching John Watson’s penis.” Obvious, so obvious. Obvious and so mightily glorious that he said it again. “John. I’m touching your penis.”

“Yes, and talking about it.” Pointedly. But with a smile.

 Sherlock ignored him and made little circles with his palm along the length of John’s prick, eliciting a shiver from the smaller man. “And it’s _so beautiful._ ” He bent and captured John’s mouth in his again, tasting, feeling the different textures as they swirled across his lips. “You do want me.” He ground his hand into John’s groin, up, down, pressing his thumb over the outline of the head through his trousers.

“Yes. _Yes._ Jesus. Sherlock, yes.” John’s head fell backwards, exposing the golden skin of his throat. Sherlock kissed along his jaw and down the velvety skin of his neck, John’s voice vibrating against his lips. “I want you. I have never wanted anyone the way I want you. Ok? Clear? You’re beautiful, you’re extraordinary, and you’re _so fucking hot._ Now please get me out of these trousers. I need, I need to feel you.”

Suddenly it seemed to Sherlock that all the numerous layers of clothing they were both wearing - jacket, silk shirt, jumper, vest, trousers,  _pants -_ were completely intolerable.

He began to shed. His jacket he shook off by shrugging it away from his shoulders and shaking it off his arms, flinging it inside-out onto the floor behind him. He then got a little stuck, trying to pull John’s jumper off over his head while at the same time seeing to the buttons on his own shirt…not enough hands. He settled instead for both hands on John’s jumper, but by that time John was fumbling with Sherlock’s buttons and _his_ hands got in the way.

They managed. Sherlock’s hands got stuck in his sleeves because they’d forgotten to unbutton his cuffs, and John hopped and half-stumbled trying to get his socks off, and almost knocked Sherlock over. Their knees collided as they tried to peel their trousers off. It was clumsy and ought to have been totally unerotic but Sherlock felt only a burgeoning tenderness that curled around his arousal, adding depth and dimension to his need. By the time they were both divested _(de-vested)_ of their clothing, their eagerness had become at once slower and infinitely more heated.

Then they were naked, facing each other, there in the lounge, in front of the sofa. Not touching, just _looking_. Mouths open, eyes roving, caressing, faces alight with joy and desire.

Then their mouths crashed together and everything sped up again, lips and tongues thrusting and sucking, hands grasping at shoulders and hips, bodies rocking together. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s back and over the swell of his buttocks, gripping his arse, kneading it slowly, one side, then the other, and again, with each squeeze bringing Sherlock’s hips closer to his body, and shifting his own weight to rub back and forth across Sherlock’s cock. The sensation sent a jolt of need through his groin and suddenly the diffuse friction was absolutely _not enough._

“John. I need…” He pushed John’s body away and saw a flash of confusion on his face, shifting to understanding as Sherlock lay down on the sofa and reached up for him. He guided the smaller man down on top of him so that their erections could come into alignment. John came to rest astride Sherlock’s hips, one foot braced on the floor, the other knee squeezed between Sherlock’s body and the back of the sofa. The feel of John’s silky hardness against his own elicited a moan from Sherlock, and he wrapped his long fingers around both of their cocks, squeezing gently.

John gasped. “Oh, yeah. _Yeah._ Do that. Go on.” He shifted his weight to free one hand, which he curled around Sherlock’s wide grip, following his movements, encouraging, sometimes swiping his thumb across the heads of their leaking cocks. He ducked his head and captured Sherlock’s mouth with his. Kissed along his jaw, behind his ear, down the side of his throat. _Oh._

And then it was a blur of grasping hands and questing mouths, sighs that were almost moans and breaths that were almost sobs, and finely wrought sensation that spiralled and swelled. The months of desire and denial surrounded every touch, lending intensity to each sense, each point of contact. Sherlock was almost undone by John’s _smell_ , of all things, because it was so perfectly familiar – shared space, shared cabs, shared moments, Sherlock breathed John in all the time without giving it a thought – and at the same time so exquisitely new, as it surrounded him and spoke to him of heat and desire and also _male_ and _body_ and _John_. His thoughts were being reduced to feverish _reactions_ and the occasional short, single word. “Oh. Oh. _John. Yes.”_ His speech was even less coherent.

Sherlock’s hand, unhindered by his sluggish thoughts, continued to work their cocks in unison, while John rocked his hips in concert with the rhythm that he set, and rained little kisses and nibbles on his chest and shoulders. He brought the fingers of his other hand into play, and swirled them over the leaking glans of John’s penis and his own, mingling their slippery pre-ejaculate and massaging it over the heads of their cocks. He added pressure to the circular motion of his palm and John hissed and rolled his hips, thrusting into Sherlock’s grip, using his own hand to increase the strength and speed of Sherlock’s motion. Sherlock rocked his own pelvis to meet John’s thrusts.

Sherlock was getting close. It was fast but he’d waited _so long_ and he wanted this _so much_. “John, _oh,_ John, I won’t, I won’t last. I’m sorry. You’re so, you’re beautiful. John. I won’t – “ And _John_ gave a cry, and came over their joined hands. Shocked, Sherlock stared at him for three seconds, four, and then gave a final thrust, and his climax took him, spilling over his hands and his belly, his semen mingling with John’s as they both shuddered through the final moments of their orgasms.

A moment stretched out where they breathed together. John’s right arm was trembling now, holding his weight while his left hand still curled gently around their softening penises. Time for practicalities: a discarded vest to wipe up the mess, then a gentle tug on John’s shoulders to bring him down to rest against Sherlock’s shoulder. Legs, hips, knees and arms tangled briefly in the limited space before coming to an arrangement, and then John’s head was on Sherlock’s shoulder. John’s arm was behind Sherlock’s shoulders (a little squished, but fine) and Sherlock’s was around John’s waist. Their other hands rested on Sherlock’s chest, and their fingers were entwined.

John’s smell had shifted again, into something sweet and soothing, like the warmth of his body, like the silk of his skin.

“John,” he murmured. It was not the start of a conversation but a statement of fact. “John.”

“Mmmm.” John was sleepy and pliant where he lay against him. Sherlock pressed a kiss into his temple and he nestled in closer. They dozed like that for a time. Sherlock would never have imagined lying so still and _not thinking_ and enjoying it so much. He lazily declined to analyze the feeling further, instead drowsily stroking his fingers up and down the curve of John’s waist. It was more than enough to occupy him.

Eventually, John needed to get his arm out, and he stirred, and raised himself, and looked at Sherlock. At John’s movement, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, and wondered what, if anything, John would read in his face.

John kissed him again, so it must have been something good. He smiled into the kiss.

As John pulled away, he said, “So, Doctor Watson? Preliminary results?”

John grinned. “Overwhelmingly positive.”

“I concur.”

“Of course…”

“What?”

“Well, the study is only in its earliest stages…”

Sherlock smiled. “I consent. Whatever it is, the answer’s yes.”

An answering smile, a little mischievous.“Well, that might not be wise, but as you say, I’m ethical. Let’s have a cup of tea and something to eat.” He levered himself to his feet and began to sort out their discarded clothing. Pants and vest were determined to be lost causes, so he slid bare-arsed into his jeans, and wandered, shirtless, into the kitchen. Sherlock stayed stretched out on the sofa, disdaining to move or (god forbid) get dressed.

John’s voice drifted back from the kitchen. “After that, we’ll see about replicating some of those results.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am willing to admit that I am slightly addicted to reading people's comments. I love them. Please feel free.  
> (Also, this is largely unedited so if you see any errors, please let me know. I like things to be correct, at least in terms of spelling and grammar, so if you rescue me from something like that, you will be my modest hero for the day.)  
> Check out [my Tumblr](http://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/) and say hello, if you like.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Attentions, Experiments, Oddnesses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118711) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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